As You Are
by n-nymphet
Summary: Orphaned for the second time, Quincy Johnson begs the Winchesters to take her in so she won't have to endure another three years in foster care. When they do, things become tense. Can they make things work? Or will Quincy be sent away like all the other times before?
1. Chapter One

**_one._**

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The house was eerily silent, and Quincy tried to ignore the way the hairs on her arms stood on end as she shed her clothes in the bathroom and turned on the shower. As she waited for it to warm, she stared at her body in the mirror, scrutinizing herself.

Quincy had been only four years old when she was first put in the foster care system.

At age ten, she was adopted into a kind and loving family whom she got along with well and eventually came to love dearly. Clara, her mother, worked at a small bakery in the city and always brought home cookies for her and her older, non-biological brother, Terrance, to snack on while the two of them did their homework in the kitchen.

Her father, William, was a short, happy man with an infectious smile and laugh. He was a counselor at the high school and was well-loved and respected by everyone who knew him.

Quincy and Terrence got along well, being only five years apart in age. He would always allow Quincy to hang out with him and his friends whenever they came over—although Quincy suspected it was mostly because their mother would always make him. Regardless, she enjoyed their time together. Even now, she could still remember sitting on the front porch steps of their townhouse and listening in interest while Terrance and his friends sat on the steps in front of her, playing with the wheels on their skateboards as they joked or talked about school.

Other times when they were alone, her and Terrence would sit on the floor in the living room while the afternoon sunlight poured in from the window and warmed their backs. She would watch him shoot Storm Troopers and save the galaxy on his PlayStation, cheering him on by offering him small smiles of encouragement whenever he looked over at her.

Unlike her brother, Quincy had been shy growing up, and it was something she had never really grown out of. She sometimes wondered why she was the way she was—so demure, quiet, and introverted—but life before Clara, William, and Terrance had always been blurry for her, especially as she grew older and it became harder to remember things. The past was a muddled place, like an old swamp on the side of the road she only sometimes passed. She only seemed to remember small clips and phrases—most of which didn't seem to make any sense to her at all. She didn't remember her real mother or father, or if she ever had any brothers or sisters. She had asked Clara and William countless questions, even at one point having the audacity to scourge the attic for her adoption papers, hoping to dig up some information on her past life. In the end, she had discovered little other than what she already knew.

The very first family she had been adopted into she could hardly remember at all. She figured that she must have only been five, at the time. The only memories she could recollect from that time were those of pain and misery. She remembered tears, sobbing with anguish, and being locked in dark rooms. She had been a nervous wreck when that first family had adopted her into their home. Like a paper doll crumpled one too many times, her paper was starting to tear.

She had been so emotionally broken—always crying and screaming—that the family didn't know what to do with her. Nothing they could say or do would coax her out of her strange, skittish behavior. They tried to calm her, tried to console her cries of panic and frustration, but she would only scream the name of a woman, (her biological mother, maybe?) that she now didn't even remember. As a result of her behavior, she would find herself locked in the basement, her "parents" too frustrated with trying to figure out what was wrong with her and just giving up altogether. When the authorities finally found out six months later, she was placed back in foster care. Again.

Five years later at age ten, when Clara and William were in the process of adopting her, the adoption agency was required to explain some of her past life to them—her past life that she couldn't remember but was desperate to know.

Over the years, she had overheard snippets of conversations. The information she had garnered, however, made no sense to her at all. For the first four years she had spent in foster care—having spent six in total—she learned that during that time, she would scream the name of a woman. She would scream for this woman to save her, to come back and to take her home. She'd sob into her pillow every night, murmuring her name and whimpering pathetically.

Quincy wanted to remember, was desperate to know of the past she had forgotten . . . but she couldn't. She couldn't remember, except for the small, frightening glimpses that often appeared in her dreams.

When she would ask, no one would tell her anything. Clara always said it was for the best that she didn't know what had happened to her as a child, and after a while, Quincy finally gave up. She was happy in her new home, anyway. Clara and William were kind to her, even despite the fact that she rarely spoke and kept to herself most of the time. It wasn't because she didn't want to be with them or because she was anti-social, but because she was scared. She was scared of something that she thought might happen, was scared of people, scared to show affection, scared to say what she was feeling, and scared to place any kind of trust in others for fear of getting herself hurt.

But, even despite those irrational fears, she silently basked in the love that her mother and father showered her with—even though for a while she was hesitant to receive it. For reasons she couldn't comprehend, she had convinced herself at an early age that she couldn't let herself get too emotionally attached to anyone. She didn't know why she had let herself think that, but it was a standard she had followed religiously. Past experiences that she couldn't even remember had taught her to not get too close to anyone, to not get too attached. She had convinced herself that everything good in her life would always, at one point or another, be taken away. And in a way, it had proven to be true. Whoever this "woman" was that she used to cry over at night back when she was in foster care must have really meant something her. She often wondered what happened to her and why she was "taken" from her, as she'd often overheard people say. Had she died? Had she been sick and unable to care for her? Had she just not wanted her anymore? Quincy didn't know the answer to these questions, but she tried to convince herself early on that perhaps that was for the best.

After only two years of living with Clara, William, and Terrance, a strange but lovely sense of normalcy—something she had never experienced before—began to blossom within her. She was growing accustomed to the home life that her new mom and dad had so graciously welcomed her into. She loved her family, and even if she never spoke of or showed it, she knew deep down in her heart that they knew it, too.

Growing up in their brick townhouse that lay nestled right in the heart of the city had been a wonderful experience.

That was until her mother abruptly passed away of a stroke.

The death had been so unexpected, so random, that it eroded and tore at the foundation that had been holding her perfect little family together. Her father started drinking in heavy quantities, an action that shocked both her and Terrance.

He was never abusive whenever he was befallen in a drunken stupor, but instead became emotionally distraught. Quincy and Terrance would always find him sitting in the living room recliner, beer cans littering the floor at his feet while he quietly sobbed in anguish, the glow of the television illuminating the tears that streaked his cheeks.

He became distant after that, always pulling away when Quincy or Terrence would try to reach out to him, to comfort him or offer him hugs. Quincy didn't know what to think and inside she felt broken. Her father had always been such an affectionate and jovial man, and now he refused to even hug her. It was strange to see him so sad and broken, and she felt hurt and lonely. It was like another person entirely had invaded his body. When Clara was still alive, he had been a bit on the heavier side, with round cheeks and belly and shining blue eyes. After her death, he began to drop weight, and fast. He had stopped eating, his face had thinned as had his hair, and his eyes had turned gray, dull, and lifeless. This wasn't the father who had taught her how to fix the flat tires on her bike, or the father who always said prayers with her before she went to sleep. This was a different man entirely. He was practically a stranger.

Quincy remembered one time, after a night of drinking when William was particularly distraught, he brought home a woman with him from work, a woman whom, as Terrance later told her, looked just like mom. Terrance had watched the two of them disappear into the bedroom, and, having been seventeen years old at the time, knew exactly what was going on between them. Quincy, however, was twelve and incredibly naïve for her age. She hadn't understood what was happening.

After that fateful night, Terrance had become rebellious, always causing fights at school and eventually getting caught up in the dangerous world of drugs. At home, Quincy had found him cutting his arms in the bathroom one afternoon after school, the dried blood on the sink later proving that what she had seen had not been imagined, as she would've liked to of made herself believe.

William was aloof to everything that was going on, or at least pretended to be. This left Quincy to try and convince Terrance that what he was doing was wrong and that he needed to stop his destructive behavior—but she never did tell him. She hated herself for it—hated that she was too scared and too afraid of how he might react—so she didn't say anything at all.

When she looked back on her life, and even as she was growing up, she hated how fragile and emotionally broken she was. She'd always hidden behind her self-made blanket of fear and denial, unable to deal with it all and shielding herself from the things she wished weren't happening. Past experiences that she couldn't even remember had made her unreasonably scared and wary of everyone and anyone she met. And as William progressed further into his state of aloof depression and Terrance descended further into his blind rage, Quincy found herself becoming increasingly afraid of the one person she had come to trust over the years, come to love. She felt ashamed of the fact that she had become terrified of her own brother. When she was thirteen and he eighteen, it had gotten to the point where she couldn't even look him in the eye anymore.

As the water from the showerhead rained over her skin, Quincy herself laugh. Her life sounded like something straight out of a bad soap opera, and she was well aware of it.

Now, at sixteen years old, she still lived with her father. He was still drinking, still sulking in his own misery and self-inflicted emotional pain, but Quincy still cared deeply for him. He'd shunned the outside world completely—only fifty-eight years old and already he'd quit his job and was living off the funds he had set aside for retirement. Quincy would sit next to him for hours after school just so he would have some company and make him dinner every night, and on the weekends she would give the house a good cleaning. She knew that he appreciated that because it reminded him of her mother, made him realize that he wasn't alone in the world and that he still had family who cared about him.

As for Terrance, he had long since disappeared. He finished high school, went to community college for two years—and then abruptly took off, her father and her didn't know where. No one did.

Quincy sighed as she turned off the shower and retrieved a towel from the bathroom closet. She wrapped it around herself and wandered into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed as she combed her fingers through her hair.

Glancing at the clock, she realized it was already almost time for school and she swiftly threw on a sundress, letting her long blonde hair air dry as she ran down the stairs to make breakfast.

In the early hours of the morning, the sky was a pallid shade of slate gray, half hidden behind billowy white curtains that hung from the window. Outside, the neighborhood lay silent and still, the sun having yet to crest the horizon. Already it was humid and sticky out, and the grass and trees were damp from the spring heat.

As dark rain clouds loomed in the distant sky, a static electricity also seemed to hang in the air, a small warning of the impending thunderstorm that was scheduled to arrive sometime later that afternoon.

Quincy noticed all of this as she stood in the kitchen pouring herself a bowl of cereal, staring out the window and contemplating her upcoming day. She had always been somewhat invisible at school—she knew that if she tried, she could make friends, but she could never bring herself to break far enough out of her shell for anything like that to happen.

She'd been presented with many opportunities to make friends, but each time she'd clam up. She never knew what to say and they'd eventually give up trying, thinking she wasn't interested when, in fact, she was desperate for someone to talk to.

Taking another bite of cereal, Quincy sighed—silently praying she'd be able to make it through it without breaking down.

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The house was dark and the blinds were drawn when Quincy got home from school, and she groped the wall in for the nearest light switch. When the light flicked on, her eyes scanned the house curiously.

What she found stunned her.

It was a disaster. The couch was flipped on its side, the cushions strewn about the floor with its stuffing pouring through the torn-open holes, like wounded soldiers that had been abandoned to bleed to their deaths. Broken plates, cups, and other kitchenware littered the linoleum in the kitchen, and the bookcase, entertainment system, and desk had all been knocked to the floor. Pages from books were strewn everywhere, a graveyard of tangled stories and words.

She tried her voice, to call for her father, but the words would not leave her throat. She knew immediately that something was not right.

Everything in her was telling her to leave, to run away quickly while she still had the chance, but fear for her father pushed her forward.

And that was when she wandered into his bedroom, which was in much the same disarray, and then into the bathroom.

That was where she found him—hanging from the steel shower rod from what looked to be a self-made noose.

Quincy screamed, her body shuddering as she fell to the floor in a heap. The leather belt dug with a vice into her father's neck, leaving red welts that contrasted sharply with the ghostly pallor of his face. With his mouth open—as if frozen in an attempt to gasp for air—and his glazed, vacant eyes directed skywards, Quincy felt bile rise in her stomach at the sight of him.

Sobbing into her hand, she drew back and forced herself to look away, but it was too late, and the image was already burned into her memory.

Her fingers tightened over her face until her nails dug into her skin, squeezing her eyes shut tight, she willed everything to go away, for this horrible reality to become a dream, a hallucination, _anything_.

Then she heard a voice behind her.

"There you are, darlin'!"

The sound made her eyes shoot open and her heart stop, point blank. She kept her head bowed, paralyzed with fear, the slow, sickly-sweet drawl echoing against the bathroom walls.

Her eyes slowly, slowly, crawled up to find a woman standing by the doorway in all of her glory—willowy and beautiful and terrifying, punctuated by the bathroom's blinding white fluorescents. Quincy stared at her. She couldn't breathe.

Her eyes were completely black.

"I've been looking for you for _years!_ " the woman continued, taking a step forward. She wore a plaid button up and a jean skirt, and her short, blonde hair fell just below her chin—looking every bit like southern belle.

Except for those fathomless black pits that were her eyes. They terrified her, seeing those dark eyes shifting back and forth, looking at her—studying her. She felt so laid bare beneath the woman's gaze. For a split second, she wondered if she could see right through her.

Quincy sobs grew louder and she pushed herself back into the wall behind herself.

"Oh, come on now, Quinny-girl—don't give me that look." The woman cooed, her voice terrifyingly shrill. "Why don't you come over and give your momma a hug!"

 _Momma . . . she can't . . ._

Quincy slumped into the wall, boneless, and covered her face with both hands again as tears spilled between the cracks of her fingers.

It was all too much. She couldn't couldn't think, she couldn't _breathe_. She wanted everything to just _stop_ so she could take a moment to catch her breath.

But luck had never been on Quincy's side.

Suddenly, she was being yanked up and pushed against the bathroom sink. The woman's arms slid against either of hers, trapping her against the counter. She felt the length of her thighs pressed solidly against the backs of hers, and she leaned forward, in an attempt to distance her, but the woman only followed her motion, draping her chest across Quincy's back. And she was hot, with blood on fire and a body that reeked of smoke and gasoline and made her eyes burn with tears.

She watched in the mirror—speechless and horrorstruck—as the woman's mouth descended towards her ear. Her tongue, a serpent's tail, flicked across the cartilage there in her efforts to wet her own lips.

Her breath on Quincy's skin was searing.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten your own mother," she whispered, and Quincy had to grip the rim of the sink to keep from collapsing into it. "Just look at that, you look just like me."

It was undeniably true. The woman looked just like her—or rather, she looked just like the woman. She could tell the woman was slim like her, but her face was more defined than Quincy's. Her jaw was bigger, stronger. Her lips were the same plush pink, but her hair, while still blonde, was shorter and curly.

Quincy gasped in disgust, suddenly twisting to get away, but the the woman's hand gripping the back of her neck gave her no time to react. Before she could brace herself and offer resistance, she slammed Quincy's head into the mirror with a brutality that stunned her. She cried out sharply, a choked gasp tangling in her throat. The left half of her forehead took the brunt of the impact, and she heard glass shattering around her, falling onto the counter as the smaller pieces slid down the bowl of the sink and crackled like fireworks as they collected in the drain.

She was blind. Blood marred her vision, its coppery warmth sliding over her left eye, nose, and lips. Blood filled her mouth when she opened it to cry, and it tasted warm and sour and metallic, like her mouth had been flooded with liquid hot metal that had been left too long in the sun.

A thousand black stars burst behind her lids when the woman's fingers curled around the back of her neck—readjusting her already impossibly-tight, spine-damaging clasp—and yanked her backwards, away from the mirror. She could feel glass embedded in her forehead and she sobbed, lifting her arms that felt like deadweights, trying to grasp for something, anything, to keep her steady.

When the woman spun her around, moving her hands to grip her upper arms, her head lolled back without his support and she was helpless to stop it.

"Oh, I have missed you," she growled with a cruel, twisted grin, even as Quincy's head lolled back and her neck felt as if it might snap from the angle. "You thought you could stay away from me? Didn't you? _Didn't you?!_ " she giggled, shaking her in time with her words.

Quincy's world spun. She could hear the woman speaking, but her voice was a roar in her ears, like ocean waves crashing against the shore. Her vision swam in a sea of red.

"Please," she felt herself mouth around the torrent of blood that had flooded her mouth. She felt herself falling, falling, falling, and she reached out to grasp the fabric of the woman's dress, gripping until her knuckles were stained white. She could not lift her head and blood was sliding down her throat, giving her no choice but to swallow it down or else choke on it.

Something must have caught the woman's attention, because her head snapped to the side, towards the open bathroom door, and her mouth broke into a slow grin.

"Time to play," she heard her sing-song, sounding far too chirpy and pleased considering the amount of blood gushing from Quincy's forehead and sliding down her face.

Her world somersaulted and the ceiling dipped then rose as the woman shifted her again, turning her around so her back was once against pressed against her chest. She supported her this time by cupping an arm beneath her breasts, which forced her into her. Quincy's head lolled forward and she struggled with all of her might to lift it, even as a wave of dizziness threatened to black her vision. She felt like a shield.

And it was at that moment, when two large figures entered, pointing their guns at them—that she realized she was a shield.

"The Winchester brothers!" She heard the woman exclaim. "So good of you to join us. Do you want to play a little game?"

"No more games. It's over." One of them rumbled, his voice as gruff as sand paper. They kept their guns trained on them, arms steady. "Let the girl go."

The woman considered him, cocking her head to the side. "You wouldn't do that. My daughter and I were just catching up—weren't we, sweetheart?"

"Either put her down, or we'll—" the woman cut him off

"You'll what? Shoot me? Don't think I'm stupid, Winchesters, I already know how this is gonna end," the woman replied, and Quincy couldn't stop her head from lolling forward, as blackness crowded around the edges of her vision, "but I'm not leaving until her bloods covering the ground," she emphasized, "it'll be a . . . win-win for both of us."

"Why do you wanna kill her?" Another voice questioned, voice smoother, less harsh then the last man's. "What's the point?"

The woman frowned, her face darkening. "Why don't you ask her father? You know, Paul Hardy? He was a hunter, like you two." The woman tapped her knife—which she had discreetly pulled from under her dress—against the front of Quincy's neck. The Winchester's eyed the weapon with narrowed eyes. The woman continued on. "Well, lets just say that after Ole' Paul took _my_ family—" she pushed the blade into Quincy's neck, making her cry out, "—I decided to take all of _his_ ," she said, "an . . . eye for an eye you could say."

For a moment, silence reigned.

"She's a kid."

The woman cracked an ear-splitting grin. "So? I can practically smell his _filthy_ blood pumping through her veins," her voice ended in a hiss. "I've searched twelve years for this little bitch, and I'm gonna get my time's worth."

The knife nicked at Quincy's skin and, as the reality of the situation began to sink in with more depth, it was no longer panic she felt, but all consuming fear. Before she knew it, she was hyperventilating, her body shaking uncontrollably to the point where she could no longer stand. She felt her legs give out beneath her, but the woman forced her back to her feet.

"Come on, get up," the woman barked.

But Quincy couldn't. With the knife against her neck—stealing her oxygen—and the terror overwhelming her every nerve . . . her mind went blank and she slipped into oblivion . . .

 _Bang!_


	2. Chapter Two

It started slowly at first—the measured, yet gathering sensation of pain.

It crept closer and higher—like flames climbing trees in a forest fire—until it was bursting behind her eyelids in an electric surge, and Quincy woke with a gasp.

The pain was sharp, searing, and she felt her mouth open wider in shock, yet no sound would come out, her breath trapped somewhere within the column of her throat. Black dots chased the line of her vision as her lashes struggled to open fully. For a moment, everything was distorted and shapes were blurred beyond recognition, her eyes unable to right themselves. Yet she could focus on nothing else but the stinging pain in her forehead—it might as well have been doused in gasoline and set on fire.

A sob clawed its way past her throat and she choked on it, tears gathering behind her eyes.

 _Where am I?_

Her forehead—throbbing from being slammed into a mirror—was pressed against something smooth and leather.

She was lying in the back seat of a car.

She jolted upright then, her head stinging harshly as with the movement. She searched her surroundings with frantic eyes, willing for her vision to clear so she could get a grasp on where she was. For the moment, the car was parked, and the driver was nowhere to be found.

Outside, it was raining steadily, pattering against the roof and windows of the car in an autonomous drone. The sky was gunmetal gray—it was early morning.

 _How long was I asleep?_

Quincy pressed a hand to her head, surprised to find no blood dripping down her face—someone must have cleaned her up, she realized. She traced the small scratches and the black eye she'd acquired with her fingertips, trying not to cry, and cringing because it was still tender. She didn't even want to think about the woman who had done this to her, the woman who'd dared to call herself her mother.

When Quincy heard the sound of voices outside the car, her breath seized in her throat and she looked around with a new surge of adrenaline, her eyes moving a mile a second. She couldn't see anything past the blur of rain and the fogged windows. The car was warm, though, which meant the heater had to of been on only moments ago. Where was the driver? And where was _she?_

She swallowed down the whimper that had built in her throat and turned in her seat, trying to locate some kind of landmark or building that would give her a clue as to where she was. However, in every direction she looked, she could see only a blur of green.

After a moment, Quincy gasped.

She was in front of her house.

After her mother, Clara's, death—Quincy's father had moved her and Terrence out of the bustling city and into a small home on the outskirts of Seattle where there were no neighbors and only evergreen trees for company. Her father had hoped the change of scenery would push the painful memories of Clara's death from his head, but it hadn't had the desired effect—it simply made him more depressed.

And as Quincy stared at the little white home with the green roof and the chipping paint . . . she was reminded of what she had lost inside.

Her father was gone—dead.

She had nothing left.

Quincy felt her heart quicken as despair and panic overwhelmed her every rational thought. _Just breathe_ , she told herself. _Breathe. Breathe, you'll be okay._

But everything wasn't going to be okay, especially when two massive, disoriented shadows appeared in the window as a blur through the heavy rain.

She screamed, scrambling to the other side of the car, never once taking her eyes off the shapes.

Before her hands could reach around behind her to open the door, it opened for her, and a large hand wrapped around her forearm, eliciting a gasp of surprise. She tried to propel herself forward, trying to rip her arm free from the grip that held them behind her, but the man was strong, and he was not going to budge no matter how hard she tried.

"No!" she screamed, tasting the salt from her tears. "No, please!"

"Hey, hey—you're alright," The stranger's voice was surprisingly soft, his words vibrating against her back. "We're not gonna hurt you."

But Quincy hardly paid him any mind, writhing away from him still, feeling a surge of adrenaline as she tried to break herself from his steel grip. "Please don't hurt me! _Please!_ " She cried.

The man tightened his hold. "My name's, Carter Hust," he said, having to raise his voice so she could hear him, "and that's my partner, Louis Gunnell. We're part of the Seattle police."

Quincy froze.

She openly trembled, a fresh sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead.

Slowly, she turned her head to look at the man, finding herself face-to-face with a giant. Quincy's heart dropped into the pit of her stomach then, and for a moment, she was without breath.

The man, who was clearly a lot older than herself had a handsome face, his lips pulled tight into a frown. His eyes—a deep, troubled hazel—looked as if they had seen all the horrors of the world and then some.

She let her gaze roam lower, taking in his massive frame. He was strikingly tall, even while bending down, his frame taking up the doorway completely and blocking out the rain.

Quincy slowly inched away, shaking her head, tears spilling from her eyes as she opened and closed her mouth in fear.

He was lying.

His name wasn't Carter Hust, she recognized his voice, she _remembered_ him.

 _The Winchester brothers._

Quincy scrambled back against the other side of the car, fingernails biting into the leather, and the man could see her heartbeat thudding against her ribcage, her skin turning a ghost-white.

"Y-You're lying," she whispered. "You're lying, sh-she said your names were Winchester!"

The man's eyes narrowed, darkening his features significantly and making him even more intimating then before—if that was even possible.

"Shit," he cursed, causing Quincy to jump. "She remembers, Dean."

Quincy whimpered, digging her nails deeper into the seat. "Please," she begged, past the point of dignity long ago. "Please don't kill me—I won't tell anybody, if you let me go. I promise I won't," she choked. More tears stung the back of her eyes.

The man's face immediately softened. His shoulders, which had tensed before, relaxed. "We're not gonna kill you," he sighed. Watching her carefully, he reached out a large hand and set it down a few inches from her bare feet. Quincy watched it warily. "I promise."

Quincy was quiet for a moment. Her eyes drifted towards the ceiling of the car as memories from last night came flooding back—her father's dead, lifeless body, the pain, those bottomless black eyes. She swallowed as goose bumps rose over her flesh. Suddenly she did not want to be alone.

"My names, Sam Winchester," the man continued, noticing her trembling bottom lip, "and that's my older brother, Dean. Can you tell us your name?"

Quincy swallowed the lump on her throat, her voice no louder then a whisper, "Quincy."

"Quincy, my brother and I are hunters—you remember that woman from before?" Sam asked, his hand reaching closer to set itself on her icy ankle. For some reason, the soft touch from such a scarred, rough palm made her relax slightly.

"She said she was my mother," Quincy whispered.

"That wasn't your mother, kid. That was a demon."

Quincy's eyes widened at the gruff voice behind Sam and, looking over his massive shoulder, she noticed another man—Dean.

She wondered how she hadn't noticed him before, since he was so obviously _there_. He was slowly pacing back and forth behind Sam, the light rain dripping off his skin.

Dean was a tall man with powerful shoulders, a handsome face, and eyes that seemed to flash and glitter with an intensity that had her leaning back again. It was a face to be dominated by, or to fight—never one to patronize or pity. All his movements were large and perfectly balanced, like those of a wild animal, and when he came closer to Quincy, he seemed like a wild animal held in a cage too small for it.

He paused, his face just over Sam's shoulder, and Quincy's breath hitched.

She felt his gaze roam over her flushed cheeks, tangled hair, bruised face and bloodied sun-dress, lastly settling on her bright green eyes that were blinking up at him from beneath wet lashes. She bowed her head to the seat under his scrutiny, feeling her cheeks turn pink when he continued to stare at her.

She immediately shook her head, returning to the conversation.

"But she . . . she _looked_ like me—"

Dean cut her off immediately, his voice so low Quincy felt it in her bones.

"That's 'cause she was possessed. Your real mother's been dead for years, what you saw was a meatsuit—"

"A _vessel_ ," Sam cut his brother off with a glare before turning back to Quincy. "What you saw was a demon using your mother's body as vessel."

"I don't—"

Quincy broke off into a sound that was something between a sob and a choked breath. She pressed the flat of her palms against her temples, applying enough pressure to make her skull feel as though it were about to crack. She was feeling more emotions than a sixteen year-old girl should ever have to feel at one time. Anxiety, mourning, unease, fear.

God, she didn't know _what_ she felt.

All of a sudden, she wanted nothing more then for everything to be back to normal again. She missed her father and Clara and Terrence and sitting together at the dinner table as a family, eating warm mashed potatoes with homemade chicken casserole. She wanted to be back in her warm bed, safe and comfortable, and to sleep and sleep and _sleep_ until everything was right again.

She was so tired.

"We know you're probably confused right now and scared, Quincy—but I need you to focus for a moment, alright?" Sam murmured softly and, against Quincy's better judgment, she found herself leaning toward him, her tiny hand reaching out to brush against his knuckles. He felt strong and warm and . . . safe. "Is there any family we could contact? Anyone we could call to come pick you up?" he continued, his calloused fingers gently caressing her ankle.

Quincy was silent, and Sam waited patiently for her response. She stared at the floral material of her dress in front of her, tracing red petals and green stems with her eyes. When she spoke, her eyes remained fixed on it.

"No," she stated, swallowing. "There's no one."

She heard Dean sigh impatiently. "We can give you a lift to the police station then."

Quincy looked up sharply, staring at Dean as a sudden wave of cold, paralyzing fear washed over her. "No," she gasped, heart thumping frantically. "No, they'll send me back."

"Where?" Sam asked softly with his brows furrowed in confusion.

Tears began pouring from Quincy's eyes again on their own accord. She shook her head. "I can't, please, I can't go back to a foster home. Please don't send me," she begged.

"Listen, kid, I know this is hard—"

Quincy cut Dean off through gritted teeth. "You have _no_ idea," She was beginning to shake again, and Sam moved to grab her arm, but she tore it away as if his fingertips had burned her. "I've just lost everything I've ever loved—my father, my home, my _life_ ," She shook her head as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I have _nothing_."

Sam swallowed, "Quincy, I'm sorry but there's nothing—"

"Take me with you," she said, voice frantic. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs in a panic that was slowly beginning to ebb. "I wanna know more, please, I need . . . I need to understand what happened back there."

"Quincy, we're not the kind of people you want to be around, trust me—you'll be happier in foster care," Sam tried to reason.

"But you saved me," she whispered. Her eyes didn't leave his for even a second. "I trust you."

"Quincy . . ."

"Please, I'll do anything! I-I'll cook for you and clean and, and you won't even know I'm there, honest—"

This time, Dean cut her off.

"You wanna know what we do for a living?" He asked, bending down and leaning close to her. His mouth was pulled into a thin, tight line, and his eyes were dark. "We drive around the country searching this type of shit out. See this car? This is where we live—sometimes we crash at some crappy motels, but it's usually only for a night or two before we're on the road again."

Quincy watched as Dean leaned in closer, eyes burning. His palms were now splayed flat out on top of the car's door.

She kept as still as a board.

"You wanna know what happens to people who get involved with us?" he asked, a bitter frown on his lips. "They die. Every single fuckin' time. What we do isn't a game. Our lives are constantly on the line. We see things you only see in your nightmares—only they're real and they're looking to kill you."

The gaze he fixed Quincy with when he finished sent every nerve in her body on fire. She felt like she'd been electrocuted. She realized she couldn't reply, couldn't even move. She was paralyzed by the depth of his stare.

When she finally managed to reply, her voice was hardly a whisper. "I don't have anything to loose," she said.

She pushed her hair back from her forehead, suddenly nauseous at the realization.

She watched Dean close his eyes again, and she would have missed the way his lashes pressed tight against his cheeks had it not been for the sun that had cast the window aglow in a burst of orange and yellow beside him. The fiery light highlighted all the stubble on his face, and the blonde in his hair shone with an almost golden gleam.

Despite the circumstances, Quincy couldn't help but find him beautiful.

"We're taking you to the station," he suddenly said, breaking her from her thoughts. "Sam, get in the car."

And the despair that filled Quincy was instantaneous, like she'd been shocked by an electric current. The jolt of realization made her heart stop, and she felt as if her lungs had been punctured with a sharp knife, all the air rushing out at once.

She couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't _breathe_ as the two brother climbed into the car and started foreward, the rocking motion causing her stomach to churn.

The ride to the station was mostly silent. Both Dean and Sam remained quiet in the front seat, occasionally exchanging hushed words that Quincy couldn't hear over the low rock music thumping from the radio.

The road was narrow and curvy, the black pavement winding its way through pine and cedar trees that lined either side of the road. No cars passed them as they traveled closer and closer to the city and Quincy had to put a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs.

She couldn't go back to foster care, not again—not after everything she'd been through, after everything she'd _seen_. She was bruised and broken and scared of the dark now, even more then before . . . no one would ever want her or understand what she had been through.

She wanted to know more about the creature who had taken her father's life and about her past that she couldn't remember—something only the Winchester's could help her do.

But like always, luck wasn't on her side.

When they eventually pulled up to the station, Sam turned to look at Quincy over his seat.

His face held barely concealed pity.

"We're sorry, Quincy," he murmured gently. "But this is for the best."

Her face was blank as she stared out the window at the dull, gray building in front of her, tears still dripping down her cheeks no matter how hard she tried to swallow them down.

When she looked at Sam, she saw his eyes widen slightly.

"It's okay," she whispered, letting out a choked, bitter laugh. "I'm used to people sending me away."

"Son of bitch."

Suddenly—to both her and Sam's confusion—the car started forward again, so quickly neither one had time to processes it until they were on the road again.

"What're you doing?" Sam exclaimed, looking at Dean like he'd grown another head. He grabbed onto the handle above him when Dean continued to speed foreward.

Quincy noticed Dean glance back at her through the rear-view mirror. His face was a mask she couldn't even begin to read.

"She won't last a month, Sammy," he said, his eyes now trained on the road. "Who knows, maybe she'll be useful."

Quincy's breath caught and her heart began to thump erratically against her chest.

"Are you—"

"Just shut up and don't make a peep, alright. I already got headache," he grunted, reaching to turn up the radio.

Quincy simply smiled, tears dripping down her face as she whispered.

" _Thank you_."


	3. Chapter Three

Rain.

It pattered gently against the panes of the window as Quincy lay half awake in a small cot toward the back of the motel room, buried beneath a mountain of covers. In the semi-darkness, she shifted onto her side and glanced at the alarm clock sitting across the room. It was only a quarter past six. She sighed and pushed back the covers, moving toward the tiny kitchenette to start breakfast for Sam and Dean.

She'd been with the Winchester's for almost month now.

Over the last few weeks, Quincy had found herself falling into a routine. Cook breakfast, wash laundry, read, cook dinner. Repeat. Cook breakfast, wash laundry, read, cook dinner. Repeat. Cook breakfast, wash laundry, read, cook dinner. Repeat.

She had to keep herself busy, because when Sam and Dean weren't around, she feared the direction in which her thoughts tended to turn.

During the day, she fidgeted restlessly—a constant, cold sheen of sweat always seemed to coat her skin. She read as many books as she could about the supernatural, shamelessly trying to keep her mind busy until the brothers came home again.

She didn't eat. She drank water, and once even downed a whole carton of orange juice (and later puked it up when the acid was too much for her empty stomach to handle,) and also managed a few sports drinks, though they did little to boost her energy.

Each day felt like an eternity, every hour seemed to drag on longer than the next. She didn't know what to do with herself.

She tried to occupy her mind with other things—she thought that watching TV might help, or perhaps listening to music would soothe her—but the longer the brothers were away from her, the more distinct the voices in her head became. Her mind was a chaotic jumble of pictures and sounds—memories she didn't want and literally had to _fight_ to push away.

Quincy let out a deep breathe and pulled out a packet of bacon from the refrigerator, hands trembling as she set it on the counter.

Outside, rain continued to fall without cessation, and it lapped in rhythm against the windows. She turned on the stove and grabbed some pans left for guests in one of the bottom motel cabinets, laying out the bacon strips and absently watching them sizzle.

After a moment, she glanced at the two sleeping brother's across the room and bit her bottom lip.

The Winchester's were . . . strange.

Sam, while talkative back at the Impala four weeks ago, was practically a mute when he wasn't talking about a case. He would talk to Dean, but Dean only, his voice no louder then a low murmur.

He was kind to Quincy, but there was a coldness to him. She often tried to meet his stormy gaze, but she quickly learned that she was no match for him. His dark eyes didn't just look at her, they looked through her. It was like he knew something that she didn't—it made her uneasy to say the least.

Dean was somewhat similar. He was almost catlike—standoffish and watchful to the point of extremity, as if she'd trounce him if he took his eyes off her for even a second.

His moods could also be very precarious. Some days he acted as if he wished for the world to drop dead, yelling and cursing and throwing things about. He could be frightfully mean, mean in the way he looked at you, and how dark his eyes got. Sometimes even the simplest of words pierced like bullets—his voice could do that to you, and she didn't think he even really tried.

He had this anger rumbling in his belly, always bubbling within him, and she could tell by his temper. He could swallow his words and bury them deep, but that didn't mean they didn't spew from his mouth whenever the fury became too much.

Other times, however, there were moments where he was so utterly patient and gentle that it rendered her unable to speak. She thought back to just the night before when he'd stopped her from doing the dishes, insisting to do them himself. Small offerings of solidarity like those showed Quincy that there was good in the man. Even if it wasn't often shown.

While the bacon continued to sizzle, Quincy pulled out some eggs and pancake mix, pushing away her thoughts so she could focus on the meal.

And by the time she'd gathered up the food onto their respective plates, Sam and Dean were already dressed and ready, both greeting her with a gruff good morning.

She gave them a closed lip smile and shuffled toward the table with both plates in either hand, setting them in front of both men.

But as she went to set Dean's plate in front of him, she gasped when he suddenly snatched her arm into a vice. For one horrible, heart pounding moment, she thought he would snap her wrist in two, right there in front of her—until she saw his expression.

"'You been eating?" he asked, narrowed eyes zeroed in on her thin arm. He seemed more awake then he had moments ago.

The sudden change in demeanor had Quincy stuttering, "I-I, no, I'm not that—"

Dean yanked her down into the seat next to him and shoved his plate at her. "Eat," he grumbled, "You're starting to look like a fuckin' skeleton."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, as he pulled out a flask and took a long, deep gulp.

He always drank liquor for breakfast.

Quincy took a small bite of bacon and looked down at the plate in front of her, chewing thoughtfully. She knew not to fight Dean on it. He wasn't the sort to back down, and she didn't want to cause any trouble.

So she was obedient—as usual.

She heard Dean let out a harsh breath beside her, and when she looked up again, he was glaring at her. She tried to meet his stormy gaze, but was no match for him.

Ultimately blinking first, she cast her eyes to her plate, unnerved and annoyed that he'd been able to crack her with such little effort. Why did it seem like everything was able to break her these days? Obviously, she wasn't just small and delicate solely in appearance. The world had deemed her a meek lamb, and that was exactly what she was.

Her anger shifted, turning inwards at the loathsome truth. Her arms wrapped around her middle in an unconscious effort to try and hold herself together, as she distractedly blinked back tears and swallowed the lump forming in her throat. It would be beyond mortifying to start blubbering for absolutely no reason in front of Dean, who was still looking at her. Timid under his scrutiny, she took another bite of bacon and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she did so.

He finally looked away from her, and if possible, she felt ten pounds lighter. She lowered her head, pretending to concentrate on her food, but her eyes discreetly followed his movement.

He gulped down some more liquor, letting out a harsh breath—it sounded irritated.

"If everything goes right tonight we'll be able to leave tomorrow morning," Dean grunted, voice sounding huskier from the alcohol. "But we'll be gone pretty late so don't wait up."

Quincy nodded, "Okay."

She felt Dean continue to stare at her, his gaze practically scorching her skin.

It was a few minutes before he finally spoke again. "'That the only outfit you got?" he asked, and Quincy looked down at the same sundress she'd been wearing over the last few weeks.

She'd been washing it every other day and the material had become thin and frail, but she had been too nervous to ask the brothers for more clothing—for obvious reasons.

But when she glanced back up at Dean's hard stare, she slowly nodded and he immediately marched across the room and grabbed his wallet off the coffee table.

When he sat back down, he tossed her a blue card. "Here, buy some clothes, kid."

Quincy gaped at him in shock. "I . . . I can't take this—"

"You'll take it."

At Dean's rough answer, Sam sighed and turned to Quincy—but not before he paused to give his older brother a look.

"Don't worry about money, Quincy," he said, "We've got more then you think."

"Okay."

Dean huffed a frustrated sigh at her meek reply and gulped down the rest of his flask's contents, shoving himself out of his seat.

"You ready, Sammy?" he grunted, reaching for a knife that lay idle on the entry way table.

"Yeah," Sam wiped his mouth and sat up, pausing to give Quincy a small, sincere smile. "Thanks for the breakfast—it was great."

Quincy flushed and bent her head to hide her shy grin. "You're welcome," she whispered. She looked back up at him when he patted her shoulder. "And thanks for the card."

Sam nodded, grabbing some notes off the coffee table. "Try to stay close to the motel. There's a few stores down the street you can look around at."

"Here." Quincy looked to her side and found Dean holding out a shiny metal gun, "Take this."

Her eyes widened but before she could open her mouth, she heard Sam scoff.

"Ah, _no_ ," he was across the room in three strides, yanking the gun out of Dean's hand with a glare. "She'll take this."

Quincy scrambled to catch the small object he'd passed her, smacking herself with her own hand in her haste.

She almost laughed when she got a good look at it.

Pepper spray.

She heard Dean snort in distaste.

"Whatever," he grumbled, taking the gun back from Sam stuffing it into his jacket, "Let's go."

They left without another word.

.

Quincy spent the rest of the morning and afternoon at the shops around the area. She didn't have any shoes, so she bought a pair at a thrift store first, sticking them right onto her feet after purchase. She bought three pairs of jeans, a few t-shirts and some skirts—but she was most excited about the three sundresses she'd found, all in pretty pastels and decorated in tiny embroidered flowers.

She knew that the women who hung around Dean and Sam didn't dress like that, but she didn't care. It was what she always wore. She liked wearing skirts and dresses and had worn them nearly every day back in Washington. And why shouldn't she wear what she liked?

When she got home, the Winchester's were still gone, so after tidying up a bit, she fell into bed.

Sleep quickly claimed her.

.

She had odd, indecipherable dreams. Dreams where the woman was taunting her and chasing her through the desert. She ran and ran, but her legs seemed to be weighed down by some invisible substance, as if she were running through molasses. And no matter how far or how fast she ran, she could never escape the woman's advances, and in the desert, there was nowhere for her to hide. Her only escape were the cliffs, and that was where she was falling, falling, falling, when suddenly she woke with a gasp, shooting up from her resting position and breathing hard.

"Bad dream?"

Quincy jumped and turned to see Dean slumped down on the lounge chair across the room, a bottle of whiskey in one hand.

He took a large gulp of it and let out a gasp.

"Yeah," he sniffed, wiping his nose roughly. "I get those too."

"What do you dream about?"

Dean's hand fell to his side as he contemplated his answer. He recognized the fact that she didn't care what he said—not really—and mostly just wanted to hear the sound of someone else's voice. A distraction from the moment.

"Don't know," he said at last. "Stupid things, mostly." _Fires_ , he thought to himself. And tendon cords and flesh-eating parasites and black smoke that strangled your lungs and bullets that chased you in the dark. "Nightmares," he clarified. "Things you wouldn't want to hear about."

"Then tell me something I would want to hear about." The desperation in her voice was evident. "Please?"

Dean thought long and hard, quickly distinguishing the good memories from the bad, being that the former were few and in between.

"I went to the circus once," he began after a while, recalling a memory so old he'd nearly forgotten it. "It was really sunny that day. And hot. And we . . . we went in this big, red circus tent to cool off, and there were elephants and acrobats and tigers that could leap through rings of fire." Dean swallowed as he remembered all the performances and dazzling tricks. "I'd never seen everyone so happy. My mom was happy. I'd never seen her smile so big . . ."

"What happened to your mom?" Quincy whispered.

"She died."

"Oh."

Her response was terribly feeble, but she honestly couldn't think of anything better to say. When her mother had died, all anybody could say in condolence was "I'm sorry". She'd heard it so many times that she'd come to hate the hollow, useless phrase. In fact, she refused to repeat it to him then, even though it was ironically the first thing that sprung to mind.

"Yeah," Dean chuckled dryly and took another long gulp.

Quincy glanced over to the bed's on the other side of the room, noticing Sam asleep in his—long body almost too large for the frame.

When she glanced back at Dean, she found him staring at his younger brother too, appearing much older then he had moments ago.

He looked exhausted.

It was raining again, she realized, though she doesn't remember how long ago it started. The quiet somehow made her feel all the more vulnerable and so her next words became more significant, more secretive, when she softened her voice.

"Do you ever think about her?"

"What?"

"I mean . . . do you ever think that if you had . . . loved her more, maybe she wouldn't have died?"

Dean's frown deepened, as did the crease between his brows when they drew together. "Quincy . . ."

"Because with my father, I think . . . maybe if I would have spent more time with him, or if I had been there before . . ." she sucked in a shaky breath, letting it out slowly, "Maybe he would still be here."

The silence that followed her confession was deafening. She felt as if the pale flowers on the counter left from the motel's maid had all wilted, that their vines had become so deprived of oxygen that they had shriveled up and died, no longer able to bear the weight of their beautiful roses.

"Sometimes I think about how he won't ever see off to my first day of college, or walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. He won't see me grow up. He won't . . . tell me how much he loved me today."

It was a little more honest than she intended to be, but she didn't try to take it back. She trusted that he would understand.

He said nothing, unsurprisingly, but his expression softened. He took another long gulp of whiskey—emptying out the entire bottle—before he moved to stand.

When he was about to climb into bed, Quincy spoke again, voice hardly louder then a whisper. She knew he'd hear her, "Do you think they'll ever go away?"

"Hm?"

"The nightmares."

Dean laid back and stared at the ceiling, still fully clothed. "Maybe," he mumbled. He closed his eyes but she knew he wasn't going to be sleeping again that night.

Just like her.

It was quiet a long time before Quincy finally asked the question that had been tugging at her mind since she'd joined the Winchesters.

"Dean," she waited for him to hum in acknowledgement. "Why did you take me with you?"

She saw his eyes open, but he didn't look at her.

"Try to get some sleep."

He turned away from her and she knew the conversation was over.


	4. Chapter Four

Two weeks had passed since Quincy's talk with Dean and things had become more . . . comfortable between her and the oldest Winchester. She spent less time skittering around him and more time watching, trying to understand the enigmatic hunter.

And over the last few days, they had fallen into a sort of routine.

If he had time, he would sit and watch a movie with Quincy—usually only for a few minutes, but sometimes (if he had time) he would stay through out the whole thing. He would sit in the chair across the room with a bottle of beer in hand, while she would settle on one of the bed's, usually with a treat she'd gotten from the motel vending machine in her lap.

Today they were watching a John Wayne film of Dean's choosing while Sam was out buying some food. The oldest Winchester didn't say much, but she didn't let that bother her. Some people communicated better by letting their actions speak, and Dean was such a person.

He'd voluntarily sat next to her on the bed, which she considered to be decent enough progress. Then she was happily surprised when he handed her a bowl of jellybeans, muttering about her "damn sweet-tooth". She hid her glee the best she could, realizing that this was probably the closest they'd ever come to being actual friends. She'd never really had a friend before and the thought caused her heart to soar.

"I've never met anyone who likes the black ones," Quincy observed halfway through the film, watching him pop the jellybean into his mouth. She found it funny how often he griped about her sweet-tooth, when he alone had managed to eat more than half the bowl of jellybeans!

He shrugged and reached for another one, his eyes still fixed on the movie.

"What was the last movie you went to see in theatres?" she asked, desperate for conversation. She rarely had anyone to talk to these days—unless the brothers were off a case, such as they were now.

"The one with all the robots from space," Dean replied, chewing.

"Transformers?" she clarified, not having expected that. "Which one?"

"Hell if I know," he said, shrugging again. "It was in 3D."

The thought of stoic Dean wearing 3D glasses sent Quincy into a fit of giggles. She tried to calm herself when she realized he was now looking at her, but just seeing his face made her picture it, and that catapulted her into hysterics again. He didn't seem annoyed with her, but he was looking at her in a way he hadn't before. She wasn't sure how to describe the expression on his face, but it wasn't without his usual intensity.

Her laughter died down.

When they had first met, it was this precise intensity that she'd found so intimidating—but at this very moment, she only hoped he wouldn't look away.

After a long pause, she blushed and turned to stare at her lap, mumbling a quiet, "Sorry."

"For what?"

Quincy glanced back up to see his brows furrowed and she shrugged, embarrassed at the question. "I don't know," she whispered.

When Quincy turned back to the television, she could feel his stare but chose to ignore him, feeling a lump start to form at the base of her throat for reasons she couldn't comprehend.

 _What's wrong with me? Why does it seem like everything is able to break me?_

Quincy's thinking was suddenly interrupted when Dean began rising from the bed with the intention of leaving without another word. Her stomach dropped and it was a bewildering disappointment that prompted her to stop him.

"Um?" He halted, waiting for her speak, but didn't turn to face her. Her question escaped her mouth as she exhaled, making it sound breathy, " . . . Please stay."

He looked at her again with that powerful stare, and it made her want to shrink back. "Why?" he asked, just as confused by her request as she was.

She felt a blush rising in her cheeks. "I . . . I just don't want to be alone."

That was only half of the truth, however—she specifically wanted his company. Granted he didn't say much or anything that could've been construed as friendly, but from the way he always folded in on himself with that pensive look, she knew he was hurting too.

And for that reason, there was an odd sort of comfort in him just being there.

Misery really does love company.

.

 _One week later._

They had been gone only three days and Quincy was already falling apart.

She had paced the motel in an attempt to distract herself from her thoughts. With trembling hands, she paced until she thought she would wear the carpet out and knees began to ache.

Later in the evening, she curled herself on her cot and crossed her arms over her head—but the action did little to drown out the cacophony of screams that pierced her ears. It felt as though they were bleeding, and she was powerless to stop it.

Outside, snow lazily fluttered in the crisp winter air, the first of the season. It dusted the city in a thin white blanket, though it would be gone in the morning. People chattered on the street and cars honked in the never ending stream of traffic. A group of city workers were setting up a playground in the park down the road.

Quincy was oblivious to it all. She cried out into her mattress as sharp nails dug into her skull. Her sheets were pushed to the floor as she twisted on the cot, as if in pain. She had to make it stop. She had to think about something else.

However, when she closed her eyes, blood coated the back of her lids. It was all she could see. Red, metallic blood, shining in the ugly dark. Everything was coated in it, everything was _bleeding_.

She cried, then, tears stumbling over her cheeks as she sobbed open-mouthed onto her sheets. It hurt to think. The screaming was unbearable and continued to increase in decibel. Her head pounded like a thousand drums, a grisly chorus of excruciating sound.

Shaking, she pulled herself up from the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, half blind. She gripped the edge of the sink with both hands and hung her head as a shiver wracked her body. Swallowing, she lifted her head and opened the mirror, her fingers scrambling for the small white bottle she knew Dean kept in the corner of the cabinet. With shaking hands, she popped open the cap and hastily dumped the contents into her waiting palm, sending white pills scattering down the sink and across tiled floor.

She brought the pills to her mouth and swallowed them without water, closing her eyes as they traveled her throat. Her lids, heavy and blurred from her tears, fluttered languidly as she tried to focus her vision away from the black dots that threatened to encompass it. Her tongue felt along her dry, cracked lips, expecting to taste the salt of her tears there but discovering something decidedly bitter and metallic instead. In horror, she raised her head to the mirror and saw not tears streaking her cheeks, but _blood_. It was pouring from her eyes, sliding itself down her cheeks and trickling over her lips and throat.

At the sight of herself, Quincy's breath was torn from her lungs in a painful spasm of gasps. She clutched the mirror with both hands, the veins in her arms visible beneath the strain of her muscles, and tilted her face towards the light. Blood gleamed at her like the ripples of moonlight across a dark lake. She blanched.

Suddenly lightheaded, the floor rose to meet her as her fingers sought purchase on the side of the tub to keep herself from falling face-first. She landed on her side and gripped the tub with shaking hands, pressing her face into the cool ceramic tiles. As blood continued to gush from her eyes, the ground quaked beneath her. She let out a sharp cry and clawed at her face. Her jagged nails dug into her skin, ripping her flesh open, and ultimately spilling more blood.

Screaming, she slipped into unconsciousness.

.

Quincy awoke to vomit being forced from her throat.

Large, calloused fingers were pushing themselves deeper into mouth until she was curling into herself, heaving everything her stomach had to offer into the toilet she was being held over.

"What the hell where you thinking?"

Quincy let out a hiccupped gasp as she was suddenly met with the sight of Dean Winchester. He was staring at her in fury, his eyes the darkest color she had ever seen them and his body rigid and tight. He was absolutely enraged, she realized. His breathing was heavy and uneven, and she tried to cower back into the bathroom tile whilst squeezing her eyes shut, silently begging for him not to hit her. She could only tense, simply waiting for the blow she was sure would come.

"'You trying to kill yourself, huh? Jesus _Christ_ , kid."

His heavy pants of breath fanned across her face as his eyes trailed over the bloody claw marks covering her face. With poorly concealed rage, he inspected the thin trails of blood that trickled down her jaw and neck. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted his hand, grabbing her jaw and forcing her head to the side while his eyes roamed over the marks she had made.

Quincy grimaced in pain when he wiped the streaks of blood away with the heel of his palm. Holding back a pained sob, she let out a shuddering breath instead.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm s—orr . . ."

Quincy tried to say more, but her eyes drooped and her body slumped in his arms as she quickly lost what little energy she had. The entire inside of her stomach burned like copper fire— like someone had washed it with hot acid—and her body began to wrack with tremors, the tears in her eyes burning her skin as they danced along her bloody cheeks.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean hissed, pulling her closer as rose to his feet. "Sam, she's shaking!"

"Lay her on the bed."

Sam's calm voice sounded from far away, echoing through Quincy's head along with Dean's stream of curses as she quickly succumbed back to darkness.

.

.


End file.
